We are not at all sorry, however, that this particular outing did not take that special shape, and although we cannot claim to be the first to bring the glories and the attractions of Ben Ledi into view, as Mrs. Murray did in the case of the beauties of the Trossachs, and who claimed that Sir Walter Scott should have dedicated the _Lady of the Lake_ to her (although her claim has not generally been allowed), we feel that we have done something at least to tempt some Glasgow excursionists to follow us, and climb the hill for themselves. THE MEIKLE BEN. It was our Autumn Holiday, and we had decided on a run to one of the choicest spots which abound within a reasonable distance of Glasgow. Of course we wanted to do as much as possible, which is not always wise, especially when there are one or two in the party with different tastes and different muscular capacities. But having got a general idea of our plan, we started, leaving that “divinity that shapes our ends” to give the turn to our holiday which we believed would bring us the best results. It was a fine balmy morning, becoming overcast, however, as the train hurried on to Milton of Campsie, and when we left the station and started on our way for the Meikle Ben, or Bin, as it is more popularly called, the rain greeted us a little freely. It may be that some of our readers have not even heard of the Meikle Ben. In that case we claim from them a little of the respect and gratitude which all discoverers are entitled to and as a rule get ungrudgingly. In spite of an unpretentious and unromantic name, the Meikle Ben is not only a spot of wonderful beauty, but the approach to the place as well as its immediate surroundings are decidedly much above the dead level of topographical mediocrity. On leaving the station we cross the Glazert, as it travels on to meet the Kelvin, in a wild rocky channel fretted by the flood of ages. We take the first road to the right, which runs past Antirmony House, formerly the seat of Bell, the traveller, and in more recent years the residence of Mr. C. M. King, a younger brother of the amiable and busy baronet of Levernholm. A few yards along this road bring us to the village school, up past the side of which we take, and make as best we can for the top of a bold brown range now immediately in front of us.